


point one percent

by desdemona (LydiaOfNarnia)



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: F/M, Kissing, Winter, shameless fluff, these two are cute personified??? like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:51:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9396365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaOfNarnia/pseuds/desdemona
Summary: Momoi does not deal in certainties. Nothing, in her opinion, is certain. She deals in probabilities, in likelihoods and percentages. Numbers make more sense to her than anything else. Numbers are concrete, predictable. Certainties are not. Certainties are frightening, which is why it’s easier to believe that they don’t exist.The only certainty she will concede to is this: he will never love her the way she loves him.





	

He doesn’t make her sad, she tells herself, and if she tries hard enough she can almost believe it.

She knows that it has no right to sting, because ultimately it is simple. It is as clear as a math equation – unchanging variables, set answer. The conclusion is the same every time.

She does not belong to him. He does not belong to her. He never was, and never will be, hers.

It twists like a knife in her gut, because she loves him – god, does she love him. She has since she met him, she thinks. She loves him even before popsicle sticks and smiles, even before he first called her “Momoi-san” in that gentle voice. She couldn’t love him more if she tried.

She also knows that he does not look at her the same way.

She has no right to demand. She should even want with as much desperation as she does. All attempts to stop herself have only made the ache worse. The hollow in her chest grows all the more empty each time she reminds himself that he doesn’t love her back. Of this, she is certain.

Contrary to the way her calculations always appear, Satsuki does not deal in certainties. Nothing, in her statistic-based opinion, is certain. She deals in probabilities, in likelihoods and percentages. Numbers make more sense to her than anything else. Numbers are concrete, predictable. Certainties are not. Certainties are frightening, which is why it’s easier to believe that they don’t exist.

The only certainty she will concede to is this: he will never love her the way she loves him.

* * *

Momoi-san is beautiful in the winter, he thinks.

It would not be an exaggeration to call Momoi-san beautiful all the time. If knowing her has taught him anything, it’s that there are different types of beauty. There is an entire spectrum, unlocked by days passing into months, by the shifting colors of the leaves. There is springtime beauty, brimming with ambition and optimism. There is summer beauty, a warm embrace and the taste of sweet fruit. There is autumn beauty, colors like burning and the chance of something new. His favorite is this: Momoi-san in the winter, face half-hidden in a cup of hot chocolate, eyes laughing at him over the rim. Her cheeks are flushed a rosy pink, setting off the warmth of her cerise eyes. When she pulls away, a residue of cream lingers on top of her lip.

He doesn’t say anything as her smile morphs into a concentrated frown. With a few quick flicks of her tongue, she is clean-shaven again.

“The chocolate is delicious,” she reports, adjusting the knitted scarf around her neck. “It always is, from that stall. The one down the block is too sweet.”

She doesn’t like overly-sweet things. Neither does he.

Tetsuya takes a sip of his hot chocolate and tilts his head, considering. It is warm, to be sure, and tastes just sweet enough. When he looks at Momoi again, there is a tiny smile on his face. In contrast, she beams at him. Her smile is so bright that he feels an inexplicable rush of warmth, like a summer drizzle inside his chest.

“My parents will want you to come in once we get to my house,” he informs her. “It’s been awhile since they’ve seen you.”

“Ahh, I can’t! I promised my mother I would go to the pharmacy before coming home. You know I’d love to come in.”

She doesn’t have to justify herself. The fact that she’s walking him all the way home, even when she has no reason to, says enough. He’s happy enough to spend the time they get together.

As they draw up outside his house, it’s beginning to snow. Flurries flutter to the ground in flakes the size of New Year’s confetti, getting caught in Momoi’s hair. She really should be wearing a hat, Tetsuya thinks, glancing from her warmly bundled coat to her hands gloves in pink. She must be cold. Worried, he slips his hand into her own, and she immediately goes still.

“You aren’t cold, are you?” she asks him, sounding as if she’s just run a marathon.

“I’m fine. Are you?”

They’re close enough that he can see the snowflakes that land on her eyelashes, lingering for no more than a second before dissolving. It makes her look a bit like she’s crying. He can count the light freckles across her nose, study the curve of her lips when she exhales.

“I’m fi–” she starts to say, but the words die on her tongue. “Actually… I am a little…”

It is on impulse, more than anything. He doesn’t think about it any more than he thinks about breathing. Suddenly it seems like the most natural thing in the world.

Momoi’s lips taste like chocolate.

When they pull away, they are both wide-eyes, but it is Momoi who looks as if she’s done something she never thought possible. Tetsuya doesn’t apologize, and he doesn’t smile. He gives he gloved hand a squeeze before pulling away.

“Get home soon, Momoi-san. It’s very cold outside.”

He leaves her standing outside his house, her cheeks flushed like cherries as she stares after him. He cannot feel the chill of the icy air; he wonders if she can.

* * *

Satsuki revises her earlier calculation.

There are no certainties, after all. For every 99.9 percent, there is always a .1 percent chance of the impossible.


End file.
